Fate
by Prisoner Len
Summary: Fate has an odd way of dancing into your life. Sometimes, it's in the form of a natural occurrence. For Sephiroth, it's in the form of a person, taking charge of fate whenever they felt the need to. AU-ish, CxS.


It was not unusual for a SOLDIER encampment outside of a city or town to get visitors. It wasn't unusual for the SOLDIERs to interact with the civilians, and generally be happy. General Sephiroth commonly got gifts, and it was not unusual for him to appreciate them all—though each and every one was carefully inspected for anything that could cause him harm. It wasn't unusual at all for peace activists to make death threats to the General, and it definitely wasn't unusual for him to be given gifts riddled with diseases, or—in a couple of cases—bombs.

SOLDIERs were greatly loved, and greatly hated. It just depended on the time, and the place.

Currently, they were camped outside of a mountain town by the name of Nibelheim; a town that nobody had really heard of, and nobody really cared about. The day had been full of coming and going townspeople, 'oh'ing and 'ah'ing over this and that—mostly the more technologically advanced equipment they had with them, such as their PHSs. About halfway through the day, a traveling performing group had set up camp not far from them, and the SOLDIERs had gone to help set up, and generally enjoy themselves.

Sephiroth, however, stayed behind; he sat on the ground before the fire, knees pulled up and elbows resting on them, his cat-like green eyes gazing into the fire. Masamune was on the ground by his side; he had learned the hard way that people could and would sneak up on him. They didn't care if he was defenseless or not. If someone wanted him dead, they would do everything they could to do him in. It was just how things worked, and he had grown comfortable with a constant state of being completely alert.

When a twig snapped, and he jumped to his feet, scooping the blade from the ground and whirling around, however, he was not expecting to see a boy standing behind him, a bag slung over his shoulder, and a goofy smile on his face. Sephiroth narrowed his eyes and cocked his head slightly, but the boy ignored him, stepped around the blade, and sat on the ground next to his feet. He looked up at the General expectantly, and Sephiroth dropped back down to the ground, moving over slightly. He gave the child a once over; he was barefoot, his pants were a little on the ragged side, yet he wore a button-up shirt with an elegant little cravat. A shock of blonde, spiky hair peeked out from under a news cap and draped into his incredibly blue eyes.

Honestly, he looked like a hobo to Sephiroth.

"Who are you?" Sephiroth questioned, hand still clutching Masamune.

"Cloud Strife, sir." The boy replied, tipping his hat down slightly; he had an odd accent, like that of a farmer, but mixed with the air of a gentleman. "Pleased to meet ya. How do ya do?"

A dirty hand was offered to him, and, very hesitantly, Sephiroth gripped it. He raised an eyebrow at the unusual boy, and nodded in the direction of the traveling group camped nearby. "Are you with them?"

"Yessir." Cloud replied. He jabbed his thumb at his chest proudly, head held high. "I'm a psychic."

Sephiroth snorted in complete disbelief; psychics didn't exist—anyone with common sense knew that. He shook his head and returned to gazing at the fire, setting Masamune back down beside him. Beside him, Cloud swung his rucksack over his shoulder and set it on the ground before him, pulling it open and digging around for a moment while the General watched him with a wary eye. The blonde pouted, dug around a little more, then turned and blinked wide blue eyes at Sephiroth.

"Sir?" he questioned, hand still buried in his bag. "I have exactly what ya need."

"Excuse me?" Sephiroth asked, suspicious; nobody could have exactly what he needed, when he hadn't even told them what it was.

"Exactly what ya need." Cloud repeated, pulling his hand back out of the bag. Clenched tightly in his fist was a silver pocket watch, a gold chain hanging from it. He held it out to Sephiroth with a sigh and a frown.

The General, however, gave the watch a scrutinizing look, then narrowed his eyes on Cloud. "What is this?"

"It is _exactly_ what ya need, sir." The blonde replied, grabbing Sephiroth's hand and dropping the watch in his palm. He met Sephiroth's gaze with sad eyes. "Please, sir. Take it. Ya need it."

Before Sephiroth could give a reply, the boy leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. And before he could even react to that, Cloud had climbed to his feet, dusted off his pants, tossed the bag back over his shoulder, and walked away, whistling a tune as he went. Sephiroth watched him until he disappeared into the trees surrounding the campsite, then turned to the watch clutched in his hand. An intricate carving of a dragon wrapped around the border of the silver covering, and the chain took on the appearance of dragon scales. It looked to be a rather expensive watch, and when he opened it, he was saddened to see there was nothing within it—the watch was merely the _casing_ of a watch.

Why would he ever need an empty pocket watch? Sighing, he slipped it into his chest pocket; it may have been useless, but it looked far too valuable to just throw away. He glanced over his shoulder once again. Who was that boy? A long, pale index finger touched his lips, and he scowled at the fire before him. He felt… uncomfortable. Somebody he'd never met had essentially waltzed up to him, invaded his personal space, given him a watch, kissed him, and then left. He watched the flames for a long while—he was still there when his SOLDIERs came trickling back to the campsite and left for their tents, ready to get their sleep. He was still there when the fire died down, and when his friend, Angeal, asked if he was going to get some sleep. Giving the blonde stranger one final thought, he trudged to his tent, flopped down, and rolled over, falling into a restless sleep.

* * *

><p>The next time Sephiroth returned to consciousness, he found himself in a hospital bed. An IV ran into his arm, and his entire body ached; the light hurt his eyes, and his chest burned with every intake of breath. He closed his eyes with a groan of pain, then opened them and turned his head slowly to the side. His eyes widened in shock; the bed next to him held none other than one of his SOLDIERs, in much worse condition than he felt he was in.<p>

"Seph?"

He whipped his head around to face the voice—much too quickly, because it felt like his brain was swimming in a hurricane. He blinked warily up at Angeal's concerned face, and offered a half-smile. "Hey."

"Damn. We thought that—" Angeal ran a hand through his hair, and shook his head. "Do you remember anything?"

"Should I?" Sephiroth asked, cocking an eyebrow. He shifted slightly and felt bandages rubbing against a particularly sore spot on his chest. "The hell happened?"

Angeal launched into an explanation, and the General's frown deepened with each passing word. The traveling group that had camped nearby had ambushed them in the middle of the night; they had made a beeline for the General's tent, but had run into some SOLDIERs. A fight had broken out, and in the confusion, nobody saw what happened to Sephiroth. Angeal had gone looking for him after catching the remainder of the group, and had found him lying in a pool of his own blood, in his own tent. A knife was sticking out of his chest, and Angeal had feared the worst—that Sephiroth had been stabbed and killed.

"This," Angeal started, reaching over to the nightstand and rummaging in the drawer. He returned with the pocket watch casing, and offered it to Sephiroth. "Saved your life. It stopped the knife before it got too deep."

Sure enough, as Sephiroth took the case, he saw the telltale cut mark of a knife. It had completely ruined the pocket watch; the hole went clear through both sides of it. The intricate dragon carving was stained red with blood, and the invaluable craftmanship was now utterly worthless. Bright blue eyes flashed through the General's mind, and he rubbed his thumb along the side of the case.

"I'll be damned…" he murmured.

* * *

><p>"C'mon, Seph!" Zack Fair whined, throwing his arms up and heaving an overdramatic sigh. "You're taking for<em>ever<em>."

Sephiroth rolled his eyes, and Angeal chuckled to himself; Zack had wanted to go to a circus that had set up in Shinra's parking lot overnight, and—of course—Angeal had decided the General needed some 'fresh air'. One could hardly call the air around Midgar anywhere _near_ 'fresh'. Admittedly, he was sick of being cooped up in his office, day after day, doing paperwork. He could handle Angeal's hyperactive puppy for a few hours if it meant getting out of Shinra's headquarters.

Bright tents and booths were set up everywhere; rides were scattered here and there, and Zack was already dragging poor Angeal to a Ferris wheel. Sephiroth waved them on, wincing as he put more strained on his arm than he had intended. It had been three years since the ambush on his campsite; three long years, and the wound still ached from time to time. The doctors had told him a muscle had been injured, and he may experience the pain for the rest of his life.

But he was _alive_.

Thanks to a complete stranger, or sheer _luck_, he was _alive_.

He slipped into a nearby tent advertising a fortune something-or-other, stepping aside to allow a young woman to leave.

"Can I help ya, sir?"

Sephiroth froze, eyes wide. He knew that voice, and when he turned around, he was greeted with the happy, smiling face of none other than Cloud Strife. The boy had grown; he was no longer a scrawny a child, but a well-muscled teenager, with the same wide blue eyes and vast array of blonde spikes. In place of the tattered clothes Sephiroth remembered, he had a pair of wire-framed glasses settled on the bridge of his nose, a black tank top, and a pair of jeans. He was still barefoot, and loose gold bracelets hung on one arm. When Cloud tilted his head slightly, Sephiroth caught sight of four gold hoops dangling from the teen's ear—gold hoops he definitely did not remember. He beckoned Sephiroth forward, gesturing to the chair next to him before pushing off of the table with his hip and stepping around it. He plopped down in his own chair and leaned back, eyebrows raised expectantly.

The General quickly sank into the chair; he had spent years looking for the blonde, and had never had any luck—none whatsoever, and he had even sent the Turks looking, much to the President's dismay. Sephiroth regarded the teen with a smirk. "Who are you?"

Cloud beamed at him from across the table, a charming smile that absolutely took his breath away. "Cloud Strife, sir."

"Well, Cloud," Sephiroth said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the tiny table, eyebrow raised. "Do you have what I need?"

The teen met him halfway, still smiling, his lips inches from Sephiroth's. "I might, sir. Do _you_ have what _I_ need?" he whispered, the gold bracelets on his wrist clinking against each other as he held his weight up with his hands.

Their lips met, and Sephiroth pushed three years of waiting, and all of his sincerest thanks into that brief contact. As soon as they parted, he wrapped a hand around Cloud's neck and pulled him back into another kiss. The blonde chuckled into the kiss, and Sephiroth let him go.

"You saved my life." Sephiroth murmured, rubbing his thumb against Cloud's cheek. "How did you know…?"

"I told ya. I'm psychic." Cloud replied, a cocky smirk playing on his lips. "I ain't lied to ya, Sephiroth. I saw what was goin' to happen."

"Why did you do it?"

For a moment, the blonde was quiet, biting his lower lip in thought. Finally, he shrugged. "I already loved ya then."

Sephiroth blinked in surprise; love was a concept that he'd never personally experienced, though he had seen it plenty. He thought back on his three years of desperately trying to find the blonde, and it struck him that he had fallen in love as well. "Cloud, _who_ are you?" he asked, pulling away and leaning back in the chair.

Cloud followed suit, putting his feet up on the table and examining his fingernails. "Cloud Strife, sir. Born in Nibelheim, learned of my abilities at the age of three, and my momma kicked me out for it." He stated plainly, then flipped his hand over, examining his palm. "That group picked me up, took care of me, y'know? They treated me as theirs—as long as I made them a profit, 'course." The blonde held his hand sideways, winked at Sephiroth, and a small ball of fire burst into life above his palm. "I am Cloud Strife, a natural magician with the gift of sight."

The General couldn't help but gawk; not once in his entire life had he seen natural magic. He had heard of it plenty of times—Hojo never stopped talking about it—but nobody had seen it in years. Yet seated before him was Cloud, a flame dancing above his palm. He opened his mouth to reply to the teen, but Cloud cut him off.

"And I'm hoping, sir," the blonde started slowly, closing his hand and extinguishing the flame. "That you'll consider taking me away from here. It ain't fun foreseeing ev'ryone's death, y'know?"

Hopeful blue eyes met shocked cat-like green ones. What was he supposed to say to _that_? "Take you away?"

"Y'know… Can I, y'know, live with you?" Cloud whispered nervously, pearly white teeth biting his lower lip once more.

There was absolutely no way Sephiroth could say no—even if he'd wanted to, which he most definitely did not. Cloud was figuratively holding the General's heart in his hand, and Sephiroth had Cloud's long before they'd even met. They sealed the deal with another kiss, and Cloud kicked the table, spat on it, and nearly ran out of the small tent. Sephiroth chuckled, following at a much more relaxed pace.

He hadn't found a guardian angel all those years ago. Not at all. In fact, Sephiroth had met his future, his life, and the very reason he would even consider the idea of 'love', in the form of a young blonde natural magician named Cloud Strife. Dancing with fate was a thing for fools, and Sephiroth was the biggest of them all, as fate had forced itself onto him, saved his life, and kissed him on the lips.

Sephiroth was okay with that. Perhaps playing with fate wasn't so dangerous after all.

* * *

><p><strong>This is very loosely based on an episode of the Twilight Zone. Totally where I got the "I've got exactly what you need" thing from, haha.<strong>

**I like the idea of this, but I don't think I pulled it off very well. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed reading it. Thank you for reading. Consider leaving me a review~?**


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